


Princess in need, Princess indeed

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elia Martell is sent to Pyke on a royal directive to marry the new Lord of the Iron Islands - Brandon Stark. But, she finds there are nightmares from the past that refuse to stay buried. And that Brandon’s lordship is hardly secure, especially when a warship docks at the Iron Islands. Then, there is the matter of a sweet, bookish widower she would rather marry.</p><p>Meanwhile, she tries not to be murdered by a toddler.</p><p>****On hold******</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salt and rust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elia sets foot on Pyke, is shocked by the uncivilised nature of her new home, and the even more uncivilised nature of her to-be-husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps this is an unusual pairing. But, but.. so much room for drama!  
> Elia was previously married to Rhaegar as in Canon. Events a couple of years after Robert's Rebellion, with the Usurper on the throne. This fic assumes that Elia survived the Sack of King's Landing and Brandon survived the execution. Deets of how this came to be will come in the story later.  
> Hope you enjoy it!

The dagger-like bite of the cold stabbed into her bones as the ship made its way to the sad gull-infested islands far way from her southern abode. Elia remembered a similar journey made to her first marriage in King’s Landing angrily. There she was, being shipped from marriage to marriage like a sheep for sacrifice. This time she wasn’t going to be so cooperative.

The wind ruffled her sunset-coloured silk gown, the sprayed sea-water making it cling to her skin in patches of wetness. Catelyn laid a calming hand on Elia’s shoulder, sensing her anticipation, as they surveyed the castles of Pyke with its bridges swaying ominously in the wind. Catelyn was dressed more suitably for the cold, in a thick northern woolen gown of pewter and white, the Stark colours. 

Ned Stark walked regally to the forecastle, surrounded by guards, and Elia suddenly blinked, alert. They’d already docked, Elia too tense and nervous to notice. 

“Princess,” Ned Stark bowed and Elia bowed back smiling, “Lord Stark.” He was shy and plain-faced but Elia liked his sweet manner and iron sense of honour. 

The trio carefully descended from the ship, Ned helping Catelyn down and Jory Cassel gripping Elia’s arm as she skipped to the dock. A silence settled on them as the two ladies, confined to southern keeps for the major portion of their lives surveyed the scenery in awe. The island was as salty as the sea, salt coating the dock and rust covering every forseeable metal surface. The locals met the lord’s and ladies’ eyes fearlessly, without any show of respect or fear, all in rough-spun clothing, with sea-hardened faces. Most of the men had scars from lives of continuous warfare and the general lawlessness. Missing limbs, eyes and teeth were abound. Faces were pinched and desperate.

This was the barbaric place she was supposed to spend the rest of her life in. 

Catching her alarmed expression Ned explained soothingly, “The men of the iron islands do not farm or keep lands, princess. They traditionally survived by reaping and raving. Their words are ‘We do not sow.’ Hence, the rough appearance. But, once they know you are Brandon’s betrothed, I am sure they would treat you with respect.”

Catelyn squeezed Elia’s upper arm and gave her an anxious smile that was meant to be reassuring. She nodded her thanks to Ned Stark’s kind words, too nervous to reply, but she knew the truth. Bunch of raping savages, who had no respect for lords or order. She wondered how much actual respect a Stark like Brandon would command here, given the ages old animosity between the Starks and Greyjoys. 

Several rough-looking men were grinning at Catelyn. But several more were baring predatory teeth at her. She knew she looked exotic to them in her Southern up-do that exposed a long, graceful neck and expensive jewellery – a large, solid gold engraved necklace, shimmering bangles as light as wind and a hip-chain that highlighted her slim waist. 

She caught a man literally drooling at her chest. She turned, disgusted until she realized he had been looking at her chain. Jory was glaring at several of the unscrupulous men challengingly, hand on the hilt of his sword and she muttered him a heartfelt thanks.

‘No worse than King's Landing,’ she tried to console herself, ‘You spent seven years there.’

“Where’s Brandon?” Ned asked between gritted teeth, slightly angry at being ignored in such a manner. Catelyn’s shoulders tensed at his name. 

Elia was aware that Catelyn was to be Brandon’s betrothed until Robert’s Rebellion when Ned led the North against the Iron Throne and Brandon gave up his lordship for Ned. 

As if on cue, the staring crowd parted to reveal a group of men riding toward them, Brandon Stark at the front of the somewhat triangular formation. His horse was an iron-grey rearing thing spewing foam at the lips and Elia forced herself to look up riding boots, leather breeches, a hard waist, broad chest and devilishly crooked smile on a strong face. Elia’s face grew warm when she realized how her slow upward glance must have seemed to Brandon.

He was dressed in simple riding leathers unlike the Stark furs of before, but exuded authority nonetheless. Chest-long hair, thick and well-groomed was tied back to reveal in their full glory, expressive eyebrows that could suggest wicked things with the tiniest of movements. Beneath them were molten steel eyes staring into hers. 

Ned broke the awkwardness, good man that he was. He moved to hug his brother who instead settled for a loud slap of palm on his younger sibling’s back. “Brother, dear!” he cried jubilantly. “So good to see you! Catelyn looks pretty as always and happy too.” He ruffled his brother’s hair affectionately. “Already have a baby son? You naughty thing you.”

Elia bit back laughter at Ned’s mortified expression before his bannermen. “Yes, we are doing – uh, well Bran. Perhaps we should proceed indoors for more conversation?”

“He’s telling you to shut up,” Elia added helpfully, and as a few of his men chuckled raucously, Brandon raised his eyebrows in challenge and stared into her eyes yet again. Elia stared back bravely, despite his heated gaze, and was pleased that he was the first to break eye-contact, glancing down at his horse’s black mane with a smile and hopping off it. He towered at over a head above his brother. 

“As my lady commands. Bring the horses.” 

Two saddled garrons were brought forth for them. Elia assumed it was one for Lord and Lady Stark, who would together break the poor thing’s back surely.

“Are the Iron Islands’ coffers poorly maintained, my lord?” Elia asked, “We do not seem to have enough - horses.”

Brandon gracefully helped the couple each on the two horses, wordless, a big silly grin plastered on his face. Surely he didn’t intend to- surely not-

“I thought it might be a pleasure to ride with you for a while, my lady.” Before she could utter a word of protest, Brandon’s large hands gripped her by the waist, raising her up as though she weighed the same as air, and sat her upon his rearing horse. 

“Oh this thing is – oh- its-“ she panted as the stupid horse reared and kicked. The stupid men about her chuckled and tittered. 

In a flash, Brandon was behind her and had his strong arms about her stomach, gripping her firmly onto the horse and her back to his chest. Elia grew even warmer when she realized her skirts had ridden up to her knee about the horse. Brandon paid no mind as he pulled the reins with one arm, keeping the other firmly around her stomach. 

Elia cast one final pleading glance at Catelyn, hoping to find help, only to see a gleam in her eye. Traitor.

The destrier speedily galloped away from the dock and into the coarse grass fields by the sea, muscles rippling through its form, sending thrills through her. Elia was forced to appreciate the harsh beauty of her surroundings, ringed by jagged mountains to the front, roaring sea to the left and bleak looking Castle Pyke to the right. 

“Speechless, princess?” Brandon teased, his breath warming her ear. He slowed to a trot.

“Speechless with your lack of manners, Lord Stark,” she teased back. She turned slightly and caught him grinning sardonically at her bared leg. 

“Might I ask where we are headed, ser?” she gulped. His breath on her neck raised goosepimples. 

“I’m kidnapping you Elia, so you may be my salt-wife,” he remarked casually. She gripped the horse’s mane so hard, it yelped in protest. Chuckling, Brandon tightened his arm around her waist, tapping the horse lightly with his reins, “Steelhooves,” he muttered to it.

Elia tried to gather her thoughts. “And what might that proposal mean ser?” she asked, after clearing her throat. 

“A Lord of the Iron Islands typically has many salt-wives.” He paused, waiting for her next, obvious question.

“And how many salt-wives would you have, Lord Stark?”

“Six.”

“Quite a disappointing figure. I myself have more paramours than you.”

Brandon leaned closer, his lips nearly touching her ear. “And how many would that be, princess?”

“Eleven,” she bragged without blinking an eye. “I daresay, I might have stumbled across a twelfth.”

Brandon barked out a short laugh. “My lady, in the Iron islands, the reavers rule. Perhaps, when in Dorne I could be your paramour. But now, you must choose. I prefer salt wife, for I do hate being tied down by the chains of a lord’s marriage.”

Elia got the subtle message, glad to know her sentiment was being shared. 

“I’ll discuss this option with the Lord Stark and let you know.” Brandon began a low chuckle, his chest shaking with laughter against her back and soon Elia was laughing with him. The mere thought of asking noble Ned Stark of whether Elia should be a salt wife or rock wife reduced them to tears.

They barely had any control of the horse by the time they were at the castle in a few seconds. Steelhooves found his way by himself, huffing his disapproval at them. 

Brandon climbed down and helped Elia descend, grasping her wrist and pulling her waist to gracefully sweep her onto the ground. Elia turned shyly to the horse, gently patting his mane and kissing his forehead, cuddling his neck. Steelhooves mewed in a very unhorselike manner.

She turned to find Brandon staring at her. In a single unpredictable motion, he bent on one knee before her and began straightening her rumpled gown near her legs. Elia flinched and moved away, but he grabbed her legs through the thin silk gown to keep her still, glaring up at her upward with pewter eyes, making Elia’s mouth go dry. He smoothed her gown as she tried to avoid the eyes of only about a dozen people waiting to welcome Brandon into the castle. After a completely unnecessary, final, lingering grasp of her leg, he stood up, took her arm, and escorted her into the castle, nodding dismissively at the bowing servants.

“Chambers ready for Catelyn and Ned Stark?” he asked to the castellan.

“Yes, sir. They’re resting.”

“No doubt. It must have been a long, celibate journey.” Brandon crooked up an eyebrow at Elia that would have made a lesser woman swoon.

“On the topic of celibacy, Lord Stark,” Brandon grinned wolfishly, his sharp canines showing, “It seems to me a looong time since Steelhooves knew the touch of a woman.”

“Most of my saltwives were too occupied to pay attention to him, I’m afraid.”

“Quite a pity. Steelhooves is a handsome bachelor.” 

They had reached a small solar on the top of a watchtower after some hefty climbing that made her a little wheezy. Trying hard not to cough, Elia collapsed on one of the cosy chairs by the window.

Brandon’s eyebrows were now raised high. “Are you calling me a liar, my lady?”

Elia was unable to answer, because the cough was here. It wreaked through her body, leaving her speechless and bent over, spitting phlegm into her handkerchief with a little bit of blood. The cold winds and the heavy exercise had brought on her illness in full form. Brandon was shaking her by the shoulders.

“Maester Collin!” he was shouting in utter shock. 'This man must be banned from sick people', she thought tiredly, as he shook her more vigorously and screamed that she was dying. “Come here quick you old snail!” His firm grip on her shoulders was painful on her frail body. 

“Shut – up – Brandon-“ she coughed as the Maester came running and two blurred, concerned faces hovered over her, Brandon smoothing the hair out of her face as the cough subsided in a few minutes and the Maester thumped her chest gently as most Maesters did. 

“This is usual,” Elia panted, wiping her mouth noting that Ned and Catelyn were added to the concerned-faces-staring-at-her. The Maester looked a little more relieved, though Brandon hadn’t stopped stroking her hair. 

“I have been ill since I was a child, Lord Stark,” she said, regaining her composure. “Please do not worry.” 

Brandon didn’t take his eyes off her as he slid into a chair nearby, gesturing to his brother and good-sister to sit.

“You must wear something that better protects you from the cold, princess,” the Maester admonished, handing her some hot medicine to soothe her throat. Elia took a sip of it and tried not to gag. 

Brandon’s predator-like smile was back, but his eyebrows were still worried. “Perhaps you must keep the silk gowns for indoors.” 

Ned cleared his throat. “Princess Elia you must needs rest. I thought we could talk in private, Brandon.”

“Ah yes of course.” But Brandon got up and moved to Catelyn, who wasn’t swooning – yet - but had a wide dazed smile plastered on her face that made the normally dignified woman look like a silly girl. Ned and Elia exchanged alarmed glances. 

“Catelyn,” he kissed the back of her hand. “You look just as beautiful as I remembered.” She giggled like a maiden, covering her mouth with the other hand. “How is Robb?”

“Squalling and breaking his toys just like any other two-year old. Quite a handful.”

“Does he look like me?’ he asked, eyes playfully hopeful.

“I’m afraid not. Red eyes – sorry hair. And Tully blue eyes,” she stuttered under his gaze.

“Sounds like a handsome boy.” Brandon was still staring intensely at Catelyn, who was blushing furiously under his gaze. 

Brandon seemed to snap out of a trance. “Mayhaps the two ladies could rest for a while as we sort out the boring matters of the realm? Especially Elia.” He turned to Elia, “We’ll see you at the welcoming feast. Herron will show you the way to your chambers.”

“Sure, Lord Stark. Thank you for being a gracious host.” He raised an eyebrow and bit back a laugh. As she walked past him he lightly grabbed at her hand, his calloused fingers moving over the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. That touch was enough to fire a thousand imaginings. Elia trembled as she walked out with Catelyn, and the two ladies felt like young maidens once again, a subtle, unspoken undercurrent of jealousy and competition between them. 

“What do you think of him?” Catelyn asked nervously, adjusting her sleeve.

Elia mulled over her conversations with Brandon and realized how little of themselves they’d shared. They’d been flirting, she realized.

“I do not know,” she replied honestly. 

Her chambers came first, the second biggest, as per her station, and she bid Catelyn a polite farewell before entering. Once, as princess, she would have been given the largest, but now, a barren lady once married to a fallen dynasty, she ranked well below the Lady of Winterfell. 

Memories were a painful thing best left to the past, she’d learnt. Forget. Forgive. Relive. 

She pushed open the doors and her two handmaidens, Selyne and Crissa were upon her immediately, pulling off first the jewellery, then the sweaty sea-stained gown, much to her relief. A hot bath was arranged for her and she mulled her thoughts in it.

“You two,” she murmured, “What would I ever do without you?” She was rewarded with proud grins and blushes. Selyne filled the tub with a sweet smelling jasmine essence and Elia sank even further into the tub as Crissa gently washed her hair.

What would she do till supper? Once she had no less than thirty ladies in waiting and she would listen to their gossip as they knitted. But Robert Baratheon had-

The idle mind was the Crone’s workshop. She swirled patterns of the essence in the bath-water, shooing Crissa away to rest, soaping her arms and scouring her body of dirt. She sang to herself as she did so, in a soft voice, old Rhoynish songs, and Selyne joined wherever she knew the lyrics. 

Then, allowing herself no time to think, she dressed in a navy blue gown with a simple gold strand about her neck ending in a sapphire and tiny tear-drop sapphires dangling from her ears. Selyne tasseled her gown as she dried her hair. She then sat at the table to compose a letter for Oberyn.

Elia chewed on the end of the quill. It would be no use telling Oberyn that Robert Baratheon was forcing her into marriage. The fool would want Dorne to declare war on the Iron Throne again, even if it had only been about three months since he last asked Doran. Even if Doran refused this time, he would probably declare war against Iron Throne, all by himself. So Elia would have to speak in hints and references. 

By the time Selyne announced Lord Stark was here to escort her for the welcome feast, she was through five crumpled letters, resigned to the fact that she was an utter failure as a mummer. She checked the pins on her curly hair one last time and headed to the door, heart heavy with anticipation -

‘What are you, some virgin on a first night?’ she scolded herself. She steeled her shoulders and pushed open the door with force – 

\- nearly taking Ned Stark’s nose off.  
“Oof,” he bent over as Elia cupped her mouth. “Sorry Ne- Lord Stark!”

He rubbed his pink nose with his kerchief, muttering, “Z’arright.”

“Huh?’

“Dis- Adright.” Ned gave her his arm, still sniffing and rubbing his nose.

“Is Lord Stark – Brandon escorting Catelyn?”

“Yeb,” Ned said irritatedly. Elia looked over to the unremarkable man beside her who doubtless felt inferior to his vastly more charismatic brother – a second son. If fate had it that Brandon Stark had led the North in Robert’s Rebellion, it would be Ned who would be stuck in this hellhole. Marrying her. She pushed the strange thought out of her head.

“I’m sure Brandon’s only being courteous,” she reassured him and Ned grunted. Elia looked at an iron sconce in the wall and felt a sudden surge of fear as memories came surging at her. What was she doing walking arm in arm with Ned Stark? He was on the other side in the war. The side that butchered her-

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Stop’, she told herself, calming her racing heartbeat, but still moving her arm out of Ned’s grip and smiling at him to soften the withdrawal. They walked side by side to the feast, not touching, as Elia tried to stay calm. What was the matter with her today? She felt this place to be oddly stifling and depressing. The walls of Pyke were salt-crusted and the castle itself was a sorry excuse for a lord’s abode, miserably small, dingy and ill-kept. 

She was on his left, and when she turned the corner before him, a tall man with chest-length raven hair and a red-headed woman were wrapped around each other, kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave comments/feedback!! Thank you <3


	2. Hide and Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia confronts Brandon about Cat and the toddler assassin strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George R. R. Martin, Arch-Maester of Arch-Maesters, owns everything.  
> I am but a humble steward.

She immediately grabbed Ned’s arm and turned him around, before he could walk into Brandon and Cat. Ned looked at her, puzzled, as she half-dragged him back along the corridor they were walking along.

“I know a better way,” she shouted loudly to alert the kissing couple.

“Whad?” Ned said. “Thad is de obboside direcjion.” The idiot turned back to the incriminating corridor again. 

“Oh,” Elia nearly yelled, “Brandon told me there was – uh – a secret corridor – thing this way. I-“

“Ned?” called Cat’s tremulous voice from the corridor. The lord gave Elia a puzzled expression before walking wordlessly to his wife. 

Elia closed her eyes as she walked into the corridor and only opened it after calming her heartbeat, afraid of what she would see. Luckily, Cat stood alone, twirling the sky-blue sleeves matching her eyes in her fingers nervously, her eyes full of unspeakable guilt. Elia felt a strange lump in her throat.

“Whad’s the madder Cad? Whaddar you doin ere?”

“Uh-“ Cat swayed from side to side. She was evidently an awful liar, so Elia came to her rescue. 

“She probably came this way to get something right?” Elia gave her a pointed expression. “Right Cat?”

“Um – Ubbub –I-“

“Oh, you must have forgotten what it was,” Elia gave them a tinkling laugh. She placed Cat’s hand on Ned’s arm and excused herself. “I feel a little tired. I’ll come later with my handmaidens.”

Ned gave her a queer expression a polite, muffled farewell to her. Cat gave her a sad, thankful glance before taking her husband’s arm to leave. 

Elia swept back to her room and locked the doors behind her. She attempted to collect herself, mopping the sweat off her forehead. ‘What an irresponsible cad,’ Elia thought to herself. 

‘But, he’s the only person you can marry because you’re barren,” she thought sadly, “No-one else wants you. The Lord of the Iron Islands can take multiple wives and produce heirs, keeping you safe at the same time.’ Robert Baratheon was a clever man. Or perhaps, it had been the queen’s idea – little Cersei – not-so-little any more, for Elia did not think Robert was so astute. 

She had to reach an agreement with Brandon so she could stay safe, while at the same time keep her dignity. She wondered if asking to be a permanent guest under Brandon’s protection would be an insult to the Iron Throne. Even though it was a miserable place, perhaps Brandon would help her travel back to Dorne in secret. Robert Baratheon had been pretty clear to her on that though.

“You go up to the Iron Islands and get married to the bloody Stark. Or I’ll drag you back by the hair and taking your fuckin’ head off to hoist on the Keep.” She’d barely survived the Mountain’s ravaging, after which the Baratheon had forced her to stay in the Red Keep for a year to make sure she didn’t ‘plop out any dragonspawn’. Now he wanted her hiding out of his sight, tail between her legs. 

She closed her eyes and ground her teeth in anger. She smashed her fist on the wall and pulled away, her fingers burning with pain. There was a hesitant knock on the door.

“Are you alright, princess?” Selyne asked worriedly.

Elia hid her injured fingers behind her back. “I’m fine Selyne. Let’s go to the feast.”

A grand, if small feast was laid out, Brandon Stark seated at the head, legs crossed over the table as he chatted with a flustered Catelyn by his side. Elia watched how Catelyn twirled and wrung her hands in nervousness like a maiden as Brandon surveyed her coolly beneath his lashes. He showed no sign of guilt or apprehension.

Brandon stood when she arrived, bending to kiss her hand. “My princess looks most beautiful.”

“And you Lord Stark look most charming.” He did, in a simple iron breastplate over a grey tunic, hair falling free over his face and shoulders. He wore a bare cloak of blue made of roughspun cloth, cut short for practicality. It was pinned to his tunic with a silver, snarling direwolf brooch. 

Brandon pulled a chair for her courteously. He did the same for Ned with a sincere expression. Ned eyed him suspiciously as he approached the chair, only to have it pulled away from him in the nick of time. Ned, quite used to this from childhood it seemed, recovered balance quite quickly as some of the Ironmen around them laughed.

“Every time, brother,” Brandon japed, “You fall for it every time.” He settled back at his seat, legs crossing over the table again, biting into an apple. Elia wondered dimly how he could jape and tease as though he had committed no outrage on his own brother’s honour just moments ago. 

“I would like to point out that I did not actually fall this time,” Ned shrugged and Elia laughed softly at his comeback, just to annoy Brandon. Brandon turned to her, pinning her down with a piercing gaze, “Is the princess feeling well now?” 

“Yes, Lord Stark. Though this castle is most – unnerving. Thank you for asking.” They were finding it difficult to speak, as Ned and Catelyn were seated on either side of Brandon, and Elia was seated to Ned’s right. 

Brandon gave her a lingering glance, his expression neutral. Then he turned to speak to a bannerman on the other side. Elia ran her eyes over the room, noting friendly-looking faces near Brandon, but met more hostile gazes at the sides and back of the room. Again, Elia doubted the strength of Brandon’s claim to the Iron Islands. 

She noticed with amusement a slight, balding lord with sandy hair and a weak mustache bent over a book about three places away. A book at a feast? She tapped the arm of the lady next to her.

“Who might that be?”

“Lord Rodrik Harlaw.”

She noticed that the man looked crushed and lonely. His shoulders were slumped and he gave off an aura of dejectedness. 

“Did he lose someone in the war?”

“Oh yes, princess. His wife and two sons. Poor man.”

Elia swept to Rodrik Harlaw, feeling Brandon’s eyes upon her.

Rodrik had a thin, reedy voice and a shy manner. “Pri-Princess,” he stuttered as she took the seat next to him.

“Lord Harlaw.” She touched his arm. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Ah, yes.” He cast his eyes down. “My sorrow for yours too, though it was longer ago.” Close up, she could see fine wrinkles near his eyes. His face was kind, and would have looked pretty on a maiden, only his lips were a bit thin. 

“Thank you. And now, we sup in the halls of our enemies, Lord Harlaw. That we have in common.”

“Aye.” They looked to the book for a while, a peaceful silence stretching between them. Elia gently turned to look at the cover of the book. ‘Tagaryens through the ages,’ it read. 

“Do you have any books I may read on my stay here, Lord Harlaw? I find myself with more time on my hands. And you must know of all people that reading distracts from morbid thoughts.”

Harlaw’s eyes lit up. “I have a whole library in Harlaw Tower, princess. You must visit. For now, I could loan you some books I brought with me here.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“In their absence, I find writing a great pastime to relieve one of sorrows.”

“What do you mean Lord Harlaw?”

“Writing your stories, thoughts, anything. It helps.” Elia noticed his eyes were deep blue and fringed with thick lashes. He had a honest, wistful smile upon his face.

“I will take that to heart, Lord Harlaw.” She bowed. 

“Congratulations on your betrothal to Lord Stark.” Lord Harlaw added, prompted by a bellow of laughter from the aforementioned Lord at the head of the table.

Elia smiled at him bitterly. “Thank you. Are your niece and nephew well?”

Lord Harlaw hesitated, “Asha has not taken Balon’s death well, but Theon is still too young.”

“Might I visit them, sometime? I heard their dear uncle takes good care of them now.”

“I’ll send you a message, princess. It would be an honour.”

She felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Brandon towering over her.

“Care for a dance?” he asked with a wolfish grin, though an emotion far from joy swirled in his eyes. 

Her stomach rumbled and she realized she hadn’t had a bite since the awful medicine the Maester had given her, but still acquiesced. Brandon took her tiny hand in his large ones, pulling her up. He was in truth, a good dancer for a Northerner, though by Southern standards he wouldn’t match up. Elia attempted to make his movements less rigid by caressing his shoulder a little. Her fingers stinged again as she did so. 

Brandon was silent, his eyes downcast, his mouth set in a humorously childish pout, like a pup caught leaving muddy footprints on the carpet. 

“Brandon,” Elia said.

“Are you angry with me because of that?”

“What?” she bit her lip.

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing a tad. “Cat and me.” He put some distance between them. 

“Why did you kiss her Brandon?” Elia asked.

Brandon’s eyes hardened. “I wasn’t the only one kissing. She was kissing me back.”

Elia turned to see Ned and Cat, heads bent together talking, and Brandon followed her gaze. Cat was high-strung in a way that only a person who’d spent time with her could tell, because she was good at hiding her emotions in public. (Though she’d only been with her a couple of weeks.) 

“I spent half my life thinking Cat would be my wife, Elia.” His voice was low and strained.

Elia sighed, leaning close, and Brandon didn’t flinch away. “I know. But, you have to apologise, Brandon. You can’t leave it to Cat.”

Brandon frowned and Elia continued. “Cat looks guilty as hell. She’s going to tell Ned eventually. They’re the kind of couple that doesn’t keep secrets from each other.”

“And what sort of couple are we, Elia?” 

They’d stopped dancing and were standing in the middle of the floor, Brandon’s arm still about her waist. Elia noticed that nearly none of the Ironborn danced. The floor was littered with one or two couples from the north who swayed to the tunes of a wiry, bald bard plucking at his harp mournfully. Most of the Ironborn had pulled wenches onto their laps in the corners, or were well into their cups. If Southern feasts were wretched, this was even more so. The men were especially brutish when drunk, one hadn’t even bothered to go out before pulling a woman’s skirts up and fucking her right there and Elia’s face grew warm at the sight. 

“Tell me Brandon,” she said, her voice growing softer and softer, folding within her. Brandon leaned closer, until his forehead was almost touching hers. “Do we really need to marry?” 

Brandon’s eyes turned hard as diamonds and a deep line appeared between his eyebrows. He abruptly let go of her and strode back to the table, fetching himself a goblet of wine, leaving her standing alone. Not understanding the reason for his sudden fury, Elia stood there puzzled. Some of the Ironborn grinned viciously at her, as her face grew hot. She caught Cat and Ned’s worried gazes and gave them a shaky smile for reassurance. 

Brandon was downing the goblet of wine right down his throat as one of his new bannermen slapped his back, japing, but Brandon’s face was expressionless. He was refusing to meet her eye. Elia gathered her skirts and made to the entrance of the hall, realizing the wild wolf’s rampaging moods were going to be of great trouble to her plans. 

She was through the entrance and into a corridor when she felt a harsh slap on her arse. The Ironborn in the corner grinned at her, his rotten teeth bared, eyes feverish and glazed. 

Her instincts told her to slap him or scream, but as a grown woman, Elia knew she was in danger. Swiftly gathering her skirts she announced, “As Brandon Stark’s betrothed, I will have you drowned for this,” and waited for his eyes to go wide as saucers. Jory was beside her in a moment, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“Did he misbehave with you, Princess? We could take some fingers off.” The Ironborn snarled at him, drunkenly reaching for a weapon.

“No,” Elia said forcefully to Jory, gesturing to him to keep walking, “He had his warning.” She would not let any more unpleasant incidents mar the feast. She pulled him away. “Ned sent you?”

“Aye,” Jory said. “Princess, you must never walk these corridors alone. It’s dangerous.”

“I’ve learnt my lesson,” she sighed. 

Evidently, walking with a guard wasn’t enough. The corridors of Pyke had many ugly surprises waiting for her, it seemed. A speeding ball slammed on her. 

She screamed, “AAAnrgh,” as the little form pinned her chest down with its weight, brown hair wild about its dirt-streaked face, eyes glinting with unrestrained rage, sharp dagger in a small hand inches from her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual comments make me so happppy. Please add more happiness to this world. Thank you. (Sorry, drunk. Forgive any typos with large heart.)


	3. All in a daze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia is completely different woman when she's given milk of poppy, as Brandon finds out.

Elia cracked an eye open, moaning as her chest exploded in pain. She felt a warm hand on her arm, gently stroking.

“Shh, its alright,” Cat’s voice consoled.

Elia popped both her eyes open now. She was dazed and her vision seemed slow and blurry. For a second she could have sworn she was back in her chambers in the Red Keep, the ceiling decorated with paintings of Jonquil and Florian. She blinked again and there was only dark grey stone, thick cobwebs hanging off the corners. 

Elia tried to sit up, only to find her chest heavily bandaged, a purple bruise peeking out from the edges. Cat guided her back to the feather pillows. She’d dealt with pain much worse than this – two painful deliveries, one that nearly killed her and after-

“No,” she told herself firmly, pushing the thoughts away, and Cat felt her forehead for fever. 

“What happened?” she croaked to Cat.

“Someone assaulted you in the corridor,” Cat replied, “An enemy of Brandon.”

Elia frowned and tried to recollect the face of the attacker. She remembered pale gray eyes glinting with rage, and shuddered. 

“Who would want to kill me?” she muttered, “The things I suffer for husbands.” She gulped down the water offered to her, “Or betrotheds.” Cat flinched. She leaned to Cat.

“Does it bother you a lot that I’m marrying Brandon?” The milk of poppy was making her especially verbose and forward too, it seemed.

Cat kneaded her lap with her fingers. “Of course not. I’m happy for the both of you.”

“Come on Cat,” Elia laughed, “I’m old enough to see through this shit.” Her language was becoming less appropriate too. “You’ve been a great companion to me on this trip. And I know you’re a wonderful woman. Ned may seem like a disappointment to you when compared to the dashing, handsome Brandon.” She said the last few words sarcastically and took another sip. “But, no offence, I would pick Ned over Brandon any day.”

Cat raised her eyebrows. Elia knew she had too much darn honour to reply, so she continued. This woman was Ned’s soulmate, through and through.

“You see, in Dorne we call men like Brandon ‘Night-silks’. You wear them by night, and it feels so good, but never during the day.” Cat’s eyebrows were inching higher and higher. “Ned on the other hand is someone who’ll take care of you. He’s good for you,” Elia felt quite sniffly now. “He’s someone who loves and cherishes. Brandon doesn’t. He fucks. Period.”

There was an awkward silence, as Elia blinked through the haze of the poppy and wondered what exactly she’d blabbered. 

“So now, you can tell me what happened that night.” Elia finished, and Cat took a moment to collect herself. 

“We were talking about the past. Before the rebellion,” Cat began, “He came twice to Riverrun to see me, and those were visits I cherished. My father’s bannermen used to call us the Warrior and Maiden when we were together. I spent my whole life thinking we would be husband and wife, dreaming of him… the talk turned to – Lyanna. He said he kept asking Ned about her, but Ned was hiding something. And then I promised I’d ask Ned for him. He started crying. And he kissed me.” Her gown was knotted up in her fingers. “We heard your voice, and Brandon left immediately.” She finished dully.

A painful lump formed in Elia’s throat. She took Cat’s hands in hers, and they sat in silence for a couple of seconds when a brisk knock sounded. 

Cat opened the door and Brandon strode in. He was in a faded grey leather doublet and breeches today, every bit the Lord of the Iron Islands. His expression was cautious. He walked to her side but made no move for closer contact.

Childish screams echoed from the corridor. “Put me down!” it yelled. “Put me down you basterd!” A small girl, of barely four was carried against her will by a guard, thrashing and wailing.

“Unhand her!” Elia barked commandingly. 

Brandon gave her a cool glance. “This is Asha Greyjoy, your assassin.”

“But she’s only a little girl! You’re hurting her!” Elia spluttered. The grey eyes glared at her. “I’m not little and I’m going to kill ALL OF YOU!” she yelled in a shrill voice.

“This one’s a right - devil,” gasped the guard indignantly. 

“A little girl? She hit your chest, attempted to slit your throat and – bit your fingers!” Brandon exclaimed glaring at the girl who glared right back. 

Elia looked at her wounded fingers and realized with a start that they were bandaged.

Asha stopped thrashing and smiled crookedly, proud of herself. Lank brown hair spilt on her grimy face and a small sword hung on her hip. Her childish bare feet dangled far above the ground, the guard’s arms gripping her painfully. 

Elia sighed. “The fingers were my doing, I’m afraid.”

Brandon looked confused, “How?”

“I was angry, so I smashed my fist against the wall.”

A wolfish grin slowly spread on Brandon’s face. “I like you.”

Elia frowned. “Let her go. This is ridiculous.” Asha snarled at her. 

“I may have found an excuse to rid myself of one of the heirs to the Iron Islands.”

“Brandon!” Elia shouted furiously.

Brandon held up his hands, chuckling. “At your command princess. Take the little nightmare back to her uncle,” he ordered the guard. Asha was carried out screaming “I’ll kill you Brandon Stark!” “KILL YOU.” “GO TO HELL!”

Brandon sat on the cot near Elia’s hip, and massaged his forehead. There was a brief silence as the storm that was Asha Greyjoy faded. 

“Friendly place,” Elia remarked, rolling her eyes. Brandon smiled at her, bemused.

“Milk of poppy,” Cat explained at his expression. “I’ll – will go – uh – attend to Ned.”

“Sure,” Brandon grinned at her and turned back to Elia, who was attempting to sit up. Brandon gripped her fragile shoulders and gently hoisted her up. Her blanket slipped down to reveal her honey-skinned stomach below her bandages, a thin gold chain pooling on it. 

Brandon gulped, tearing his eyes away from the exposed skin with difficulty, back to Elia’s face – safer territory. It was sweaty and her eyes drooped from sleep. 

“Brandon, your cloak matches your eyes,” she slurred. Her hand was gripping his arm, and she traced the line of his jaw. “You look much better when you shave,” she whispered. “Positively delicious.” She licked her lips, staring at his. 

Brandon bit back a laugh and rubbed his chin self-consciously, unused to the absence of his beard. He’d woken up in the morning and decided to shave on a whim. 

Elia cocked her neck sideways, gazing up at him with half-closed eyes. They were deep onyx - indistinguishable pools of blackness like he’d never seen before. (Apart from Oberyn, but that was out of question). He ran her eyes down her body, more exposed than even under the mildly suggestive silk gowns she wore. Prominent, bird-like collar-bones branched out into fragile shoulders. Her whole chest, flat and boyish, was boarded up in bandages, an ugly bruise showing over the top which he lightly touched. She whimpered.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked, concerned. “I’m going to kill that little git.”

Her forehead shone in sweat and her skin was hot, so hot where he touched it. A sickening feeling rose in his chest when she huffed with a sarcastic smile.

“Hurt is something I’m quite used to Brandon. As a matter of fact,” she drawled, “I think reaching the point of insensitivity.”

Brandon put his thumb to her lips. “Don’t,” he whispered. He continued to run his eyes downwards to, (his breath caught in his throat) her beautiful, narrow waist, the smooth skin marred by a scar running across diagonally. It was thick and ridged. He gently traced the scar with a finger. 

He looked back into her eyes. Her face was very close to him now, so close that he could see the tiny beads of light from the windows in her gleaming eyes. Gleaming from tears he realized. 

“How did you get that scar?” he whispered into her mouth.

Elia closed her eyes. He could see thin green veins running behind her eyelids. 

“The Mountain,” she whispered back, hoarse. Her lips were soft when they met his and they kissed slowly for a few moments. The milk of poppy from her lips made him a little woozy. Then her head dropped to his shoulder. Brandon released a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, in a whoosh. 

He held her for a moment and then turned to see her asleep on his shoulder, snoring lightly. Smiling, he gently placed her back into the cushions, sweeping the curls away from her face and laying a kiss on her forehead. 

“How sweet,” a voice rumbled from the entrance.

Brandon looked up to note with irritation that Dagmer Cleftjaw was standing in the doorway, his lips crooked up in a teasing double-smile. A scar to his face had split his face in two, giving him the nickname ‘Four lips’. 

Brandon marched to the doorway, hissing to him, “Do the Ironborn have no sense of privacy?” but the older man only smiled wider, lips stretching like worms. Brandon pushed past him into the corridor.

“We take our women hard and fast, Lord Stark,” he threatened to Brandon’s back, “The kneeler better learn the Old Way if he wants to survive ‘ere for long.”

Brandon stopped in front of him and turned. “You squids are all kneelers now. And you better kneel to me if you want to keep your heads. Meet me in the Sea Tower with the others by sunset. We have matters to discuss.”

Dagmer watched the preening lordling turn with a whip of his cloak and walk away, still smiling. He rolled his hands into fists, the rings he’d stolen from dozens of men he’d slain biting into the hard flesh of his palm. He would add that snarling wolfs-head ring on Brandon Stark’s finger to his hand. He had a space on his middle finger specially saved for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heatin' up, folks.


	4. In a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversation with Rodrik is far more pleasurable than talking to Brandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanfic stereotypes
> 
> 1\. Hyper-sexual Elia. Goes out and gets the men she wants (usually Rhaegar, but subverted by the innocent, beautiful, brave Lyanna). Does not understand simple signs of rejection. Very needy, sensuous, horny etc.
> 
> 2\. Meek Elia. Gentle, forgiving. Willing to give up husband/potential suitor with large heart. 
> 
> Hear them break like glass.

Elia felt a thrill of adventure wandering the castle all on her own. Somehow, age and experience of great danger had made her reckless, she realized. But how long could one stay cooped to her chambers? She’d gotten a message from Lord Harlaw the previous day, just as she had been promised.

Princess,  
I am currently residing in the Bloody Keep. I will send an escort for you tomorrow evening to accompany you to a guest solar where I will bring my nephew who you requested to see. I also have books for you to read.  
Look forward to meeting you,  
Rodrik.

His handwriting was small and neat, penned carefully on the parchment with nary an ink smudge. It was very similar to how she wrote. She imagined when Brandon wrote, it would be in big, stumbling letters. She smiled to herself in the dark.

So there she was, in a roughspun cloak, going to Rodrik’s solar to surprise him. Ned would probably kill her if he knew. She was confronted by a bridge to the Bloody Keep. One of the famous swaying bridges of Pyke, twirling and twisting in the wind and rain. She bit her lip. She could turn back now. But, she’d have to live with the knowledge that she was craven.

She shrugged and placed a foot on the bridge and almost immediately lost balance. She grasped at the railing and fell to her knees. The wet wood under her creaked under the impact, but thankfully she was too light to cause damage. She clutched the rope railing and began to slowly walk down the bridge. The rain picked up about her. By the time she was in the middle of the bridge it was a howling storm, careening her to the sides. It took all of her strength to grip the railing and inch to the other side. She was struck by the harshness of the storm and the supernatural effect of her surroundings, hazed by a cover of pouring rain.

Somehow, it became more than just crossing the bridge. All her life she’d depended on someone for her life and happiness. She wanted to learn how to live by herself, to be happy on her own. She was almost there. Just a few feet. The wet wood slipped her and before she knew it, she was dangling off the edge of the bridge, the wind snapping at her, threatening to push her off into the ocean. Her bruised chest hurt from desperate contact with the rough surface of the bridge, but with a loud war cry, she hoisted herself up onto the bridge. First a knee. Then using that as a lever, another. Finally, she crawled to the other side.

She’d made it. Her face broke into a wide grin. 

Allowing herself a few moments to rest and soak in the rain that would doubtless cause her much misery and sickness later, she finally stood up, wiping the rope burns on her cloak, heading into the Keep. Remembering the directions one of the salt-wives had given her, she went up the winding staircase to a solar.

She knocked on the doors. No reply.

‘Of course, you fool. He’s not going to wait for you the whole evening.’

She heard footsteps up the solar and tensed. There was Rodrik, completely hidden behind a stack of books he was holding, stumbling up the stairs. 

“Lord Harlaw-“ she began. Rodrik, alarmed, lost balance and the books slid off, one by one in a cascade.

“Oof!” Rodrik exclaimed, struggling to gather them, and Elia helped him, trying not to laugh.

“Shouldn’t you have servants to do this Lord Harlaw?”

He gave her a queer glance. “Ironborn don’t keep servants Princess. We have thralls. They’re slaves captured on raids. And since it’s been quite a while since I’ve gone raiding and I’ve freed most of mine, I don’t have any left.” 

Elia smiled at him. “I could imagine.” The books were back in a pile, though there were sheets of parchment that had flown out of one book and were in complete disorder. Rodrik insisted he take most of the bulk of the weight, and they proceeded up the stairs. 

Rodrik struggled with the lock and finally opened it. They dumped the books on the table, and Rodrik surveyed Elia out of the corner of his eye.

“I never thought you would –“

“Yes, I know. I shouldn’t be out in Pyke alone,” Elia finished for him. She took off her cloak which had been utterly unsuccessful in keeping her from being drenched in the rain. Rodrik’s eyes widened. Elia had forgotten to consider how the drenched silk must look on her, clinging to her form.

“And you can call me Elia,” she said awkwardly, hanging the cloak on one of the chairs.

Rodrik cleared his throat, blinking and ruffling his hair. “Sure, er – I’ll go ask Heinrik to bring Theon-“

“Yes, my lord?” A hefty man with blonde hair and pink, bulbous nose stood at the doorway. He wore an expression that indicated vague stupidity.

Rodrik palmed his face, “Heinrik, how many times have I told you not to stand outside my solar when I’m talking to someone.”

“Sorry, my lord.”

“Go get Theon. And, please don’t drop him!”

“Yes my lord.” And Heinrik was off, bobbing down the stairs.

“That’s your personal guard?” Elia asked, trying not to laugh. 

Rodrik sighed, cracking up a slight smile. “He’s loyal,” he offered, pulling up a chair for Elia. He undid his cloak and handed it to Elia. “You look as though you will catch a dreadful cold, princess.”

“Elia,” she corrected, and was seated in his chair, wrapped in his cloak. He knelt in his tunic and linen breeches, bringing a candle to the hearth to kindle a fire. His cloak smelt like parchment and ink and something citrus. Rodrik was small and lean, like her and the fire lit up his delicate features and sandy hair.

 

“I’m sorry about Asha,” he began as he closed the windows to keep out the cold, “I spent a whole hour explaining to her how you were completely faultless. I can’t imagine how she even got it in her head-“

“It’s alright,” Elia smiled and then sneezed as Rodrik seated himself in the opposite chair. “She’s only a little girl.” She wiped her nose with a damp handkerchief, coughing lightly. 

Heavy steps were heard and Heinrik appeared bearing a small fur bundle. Elia took it in her arms eagerly. In it was a tiny baby, less than six months by the look of it and excessively sleepy.

“Oh you shouldn’t have woken him,” Elia whispered. “Oh hush, little one. Boobooboo.” The baby yawned and opened its eyes. They were a startling grey-blue. “Hello!” His cheeks were so chubby, Elia wanted to pinch them, but she didn’t know if Rodrik would take that kindly, because he was gazing at Theon lovingly, a wide silly smile on his face. 

“Theon grabbed my finger on the way,” Heinrik said eagerly.

“I’m sure, Heinrik. Now, go get us something to eat.” Heinrik bumbled out.

“You are a cruel man, Lord Harlaw.”

“Its Rodrik,” he smiled. She liked the way he smiled - contained smiles, honest and just a little sad. 

She bobbed the baby a little, and its eyes were droopy again. “I think the warmth is making him sleepy,” she announced. She remembered holding a similar bundle, small and pale as this. It would open its indigo eyes from time to time and smile toothlessly at nothing. It would put its two middle fingers in its mouth and gurgle. And Rhaegar would gently kiss its forehead-

\- “Oh, give him here, he’s heavy.” Rodrik took Theon from her and put him in a crib to the corner she hadn’t even noticed. He rocked him for a bit. The solar was small and cosy, a thick carpet laid out on the stone floor. It was already quite warm and Elia’s clothes were beginning to dry. She just hoped she wasn’t going to pay with death from the poor choices she was making. 

“Now about the books,” Rodrik came back to the chair. “What sort of books are you interested in?”

Elia bit her lip. “Stories,” she said.

“I have mostly history books. Several on the Tagaryens.”

“Do you have anything about the Ironborn?”

“Sure, though they come few and far between. Most Maesters don’t bother themselves with these salty islands.” He deposited a book on her lap. ‘A Brief History of the Ironborn, Wildlings and other Northern Savages’ it read. 

“You sound disapproving,” Elia smiled, pulling the book open. It was beautifully illustrated, and she tried not to get any water on it. 

Rodrik shrugged. “I feel the Iron Islands are much more than meets the eye. For example, the practice of thralldom came from the First Men.”

“Truly?” Elia asked intrigued.

“Yes. And no-one knows who built Pyke. It’s been standing for ages. Some say the First Men built it.”

Elia turned to a picture of an Ironborn man carrying away a weeping woman on a horse, her dress torn to her waist revealing her breasts. The man had an animal sneer on his face. ‘The Old Way: An Ironborn reaving,’ it read under the picture. 

“Do you follow the Old Way?” she asked Rodrik, but as he opened his mouth to answer, there was a loud knock on the door. 

Before Rodrik went to open the door, there was another impatient knock. 

Brandon Stark stood on the other side, completely drenched, hair hanging about his face like a wet dog. His cloak clung to his back, dripping water on the stone floor. Her chair had its back to him and as she craned her head backward, his eyes met hers and they blazed with fury.

“You,” he barked, “Come with me now.” 

Elia’s brows furrowed. Rodrik gave her a worried glance. She chose her words carefully. “Overlooking your lack of courtesy, Lord Stark, what am I required for?” 

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “Princess,” he bowed sarcastically, “Your kind presence is required by the Lord of the Iron Islands.”

“That’s better,” she shot back. “See you on the morrow, Rodrik. Do send me those books.”

“Of course, princess.” She smiled at him, and stood in the doorway, waiting for Brandon to move. Brandon towered over her, working his jaw in anger, staring at her, and Elia raised her eyebrows in question. He broke away from her gaze and turned rudely, skipping down the stairs. Elia followed, and they walked in silence for a while. 

When they were out of Rodrik’s earshot, Brandon turned on her, trapping her against the wall, slamming his fist to the side of her head.

“Didn’t tell anyone where you went. No message with the handmaidens. Went alone without an escort. Crossed a Pyke bridge in a fucking storm.” It would have been funny if his features hadn’t been twisted in anger and if his eyes hadn’t been searing into her face. “What the hell were you thinking Elia?”

He was close to her now, their noses nearly touching, his breath hot on her face. He smelled like fur and rain. “It’s none of your business Brandon.”

“Sure it’s none of my business. But I can’t even trust you to take care of yourself. First, the incident with Asha. Now, you go sneaking out to meet Harlaw.”

“Do you have a problem with me meeting Harlaw?”

“Fuck, yes!” he barked hoarsely into her face. 

“Then, I’m sorry Brandon. You can’t control what I do. I’m the princess of Dorne, not your salt-wife.” She shouldered his chest and walked past him toward to bridge, now within sight. The rain was gone, and the bridge swayed slightly, beguilingly calm. Unable to resist, she turned back and yelled, “And I made it across the bridge in a storm all by my fucking self! Handle it, Brandon!”

Perturbed by her own rage, she stormed across the bridge to the main Keep. Brandon didn’t dare follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by when the boyfriend yelled at me for going out alone for a midnight walk.  
> The next update may be a couple of days after this as I have way too much work this weekend.
> 
> Do you like badass Elia? Please comment.


	5. Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia must make a choice. But, she has no choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be a bit more spaced out after the first rush, as real life catches up. But, I won't ever leave you hanging <3 I'm planning to update on Tuesdays/Wednesdays and Fridays.
> 
> Here's Brandon Stark to fire up your imaginings. (Also to show off that I'm learning to use HTML)

 

Elia finished writing her letter to Oberyn two mornings later, trying to gather her thoughts. The last time she’d shouted at someone, it had been Rhaenys, and the little girl cowered every time she saw her for the next few days. She knew she was truly fearsome when she was angry and therefore felt little anxiety about Brandon not bothering to see her the whole of the previous day. 

She sneezed a couple of times into her handkerchief. Sure, she had a terrible cold from the adventure, but she felt a strange sense of victory rise up in her chest when she thought of it. And, she had two beautifully illustrated books from Rodrik sitting on her desk as a reward. 

_  
Dearest Oby,_

_Don’t be alarmed just yet. I’m perfectly safe in the Iron Islands. I know what you say about beginning letters with ‘perfectly safe’ because it indicates me not being perfectly safe, but I am perfectly safe. Truly._

_Yes, they are sad gull-infested islands, but no offense to gulls, they are also infested with the Ironborn. I’m finding this hard to grasp, because the reavers are a rough lot. But, I have only been molested once so far, though there also was an assassination attempt on me by a toddler._

_I repeat, I am perfectly safe._

_Lord Brandon Stark of the Iron Islands was very welcoming, though he needs to be reminded that I’m a princess from time to time, and that I can take perfect care of myself, ~~fucking~~ thank you. Lord and Lady Eddard and Catelyn Stark, on the contrary have been extraordinarily wonderful companions. Cat is the sweetest companion ~~I’ve had since Ashara~~. Lord Eddard is not as boring as you described. He is no riot, though he is very sweet, honourable and understanding. His brother of course is the exact opposite. _

_I hope everyone is well in Dorne and that Arianne is not worrying about her red spots again. Tell her they’ll go away eventually if she stays away from lads (just japing). How are the Sand snakes? Sssss. I miss them so. Give Doran my wishes and tell him to take care of his health._

_If I’m stuck here for a lifetime you have to visit me atleast twice a year, or I’ll disown you._

_Lots of love,_  
Elia.  


Elia sighed, crumpling her letter. She sipped the sour Northern wine, cursing and wishing for Dornish red, spiced and heavenly. She took the two books Rodrik had given her with a small note he’d attached.

__

Dear Elia,  
I have sent the book I showed you and another that I think you may be interested in. I hope you like my choice. You only need request and I’ll send you as many as you like.  
Rodrik. 

Elia’s face lit up in a smile as soon as she read the note. ‘As many as you like.’ The other book was a very old one. Elia nearly squealed with joy when she read the name. ‘Ten thousand ships’. She was holding the chronicle – perhaps one of the first copies- of Queen Nymeria’s conquest of Dorne, complete with the most wonderful illustrations. She was soon absorbed in the book, the outside world completely forgotten. 

“Princess. Princess.” No reply. “Princess.”

“Hmm?” she hummed. Selyne sighed and snapped her finger’s before Elia’s face. 

“What?” she asked annoyed. Selyne looked stressed. “Lord Stark wants to see you.”

“Well tell him to meet me later.” Elia replied off-hand, returning to the book.

Selyne stared at her. “Lord Stark asked you to come with him now. After you’re dressed.” Elia raised her eyebrows and gazed at her meaningfully.

“What are you reading?”

“Ten thousand ships. Queen Nymeria’s conquest of Dorne. The Martells claim direct ancestry from this splendid ruler and I quote her: “Women are superior to men by far, if they put their mind to it”. And since I’m a woman and older than the two wolves, ask them to come to my solar a couple of hours after lunch when I’ll meet them. I’ll see you later Selyne. Farewell.” She bent back to the book. 

Selyne huffed, wringing her hands nervously as she headed out to talk to presumably, Ned Stark. Rather, the towering form of his older brother elbowed his way past a muttering Selyne into the room. 

Elia was still in her night-gown, curly hair lying untied about her face, barely making it past her chin in thick squiggles. She looked up from her book at hard grey eyes. His gaze was hot upon her uncovered arms and the top of her chest. Her bandages were off, revealing the blackening bruise. Her legs, smooth and graceful were bared to her knees, with a thin golden anklet about one dainty ankle. Brandon’s eyes seemed to rake over her body, and she quickly wrapped a towel about herself self-consciously, standing up.

“I did not give you leave to enter my room, Lord Stark.” A two-day stubble coated his jaw and he was dressed in black today, his hair combed up and tied back in a long pony’s tail. Elia felt a strange urge to run her hands through their thin strands. 

“Apologies, Princess. Please come to the Sea Tower whenever you have the time. You seem busy,” he cast his eyes to the books scattered on her bed, “But I warn you that Ned, the Lord of Winterfell and I, the Lord of the Iron Islands will only wait there for you for an hour at the most.”

“The Princess of Dorne will needs dress first, Lord Stark,” Elia replied back, equally rude. 

“I leave you an escort. It is up to you if you wish to make use of him.” 

“Thank you for your kindness.” Selyne glanced between them, clutching the curtains, frightened by the angry exchange. The whole room’s temperature seemed to dip and Elia shivered, restraining an oncoming cough. When Brandon left, turning swiftly without a backward glance, she collapsed on her bed, coughing.

Today, all the power of Dorne would be on show. Though that particular attack had been vicious she calmed her aching throat with warm honey, swiftly dressing herself in a splendorous red satin gown, Oberyn’s favourite. She tied it around her narrow waist with a heavy gold belt. She left her neck bare, the deep cut showing off her bruise like a trophy. She let Selyne tie her hair up with gold pins and hang large gold earrings on her ears. She let her darken her eyes with charcoal and rub Dornish spice all over her skin, reddening her lips lightly with berry stain afterward.

When she turned, Selyne stared. “You look different,” she declared.

“Good,” Elia said, as she slipped on her gold satin slippers and swished out of the room. She made Selyne and Crissa follow her, ignoring Brandon’s ‘escort’. 

Ned Stark stood, his back to her, looking outside the window thoughtfully as Brandon paced furiously on the other side of the room. Cat was nowhere in sight. 

When she entered the room, she announced herself, “Lord Stark.” Brandon whipped his head to see her. Ned Stark turned and was lost for words. 

Elia proceeded into the room, unperturbed by the two men’s lack of coherent reply. She couldn’t look at Brandon for some reason, so she looked at Ned instead, who finally gave her a hesitant smile.

“Congratulations,” she told Ned, “I’m so happy for you and Cat.” 

Ned’s smile was genuine this time. “Thank you, Princess.” Then, his expression darkened. “About that. Cat and I must return to Winterfell soon. For her child and because Benjen is too young to rule Winterfell alone. We came here for a reason. We must fix a day for your marriage, princess.”

Something in Elia had expected this, but she still gave a start, turning to look at Brandon, who was now seated in a chair, his fingers on the bridge of his nose. 

She motioned to Selyne and Crissa to leave and they did so, shutting the door behind them. 

She walked to Ned and took his hands in hers. Brandon looked up at them. Ned flinched, but stayed put.

“I beg you Ned. I’ve been forced into a marriage before. I do not want to do this.”

“The King has commanded-“

“If you could secretly take me to Dorne somehow-“

“And defying him would be treason.” There was a brief pause, and Elia tried to continue her reasoning. 

“Ned, you’re Baratheon’s best friend. He wouldn’t execute you if you do this small thing for me.”

Ned frowned and withdrew his hands from hers. “What if you’re caught? I wouldn’t gamble with your life, princess. The peace of this realm is at stake.”

Elia had that horrible feeling in her tummy that she got when she was losing an argument.

“Brandon is a good man. He’ll take care of you.” Ned’s voice was soothing. Brandon gave a short bark of laughter and turned to stare out into the sea.

Ned turned to him, angry. “Brandon, you’re not helping.”

Brandon covered the distance to Ned in two long strides. “She would rather die than marry me Ned. It’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? When you have Cat.”

There was a brief, shocked silence as his words sunk into them. 

Brandon slammed the window sill with his fist, sending the wine glass on it crashing onto the floor, “Everything I want to say comes out wrong," he muttered.

Ned ran his hand over his face, as Elia stared into the roaring sea. Here in Pyke, you felt all alone sometimes, unconnected from the outside world. Wherever you went there was the sea around you, like you were on a stationary ship. It was poignant, but discomfiting for people like them. People of lands, farms, snows and desert. The sea was hostile to them. It favoured the Ironmen.

“You can still have it Bran,” Ned spoke so softly, Elia had to strain to hear him, “You can have Winterfell. But I’ll never give you Catelyn.” His voice was nearly a whisper now. It was strained and furious. On a restrained man like Ned, fury was a rare and frightening emotion. 

Brandon spun around to face him. “Oh you can have Catelyn, Ned. And you can have Winterfell. I earned the Iron Islands. I fought for them and won them and I’ll rule them. I’m making my own life.”

Iron grey eyes turned suddenly to gaze into hers. 

She stared into those eyes for what felt like eternity. She wanted to run away. She wanted to stand with him forever. She wanted to fall into his arms. She wanted to push him out of the window. She wanted to yell at him. She wanted to whisper intimate things in his ear. She wanted to kiss his lips. She wanted to grab him by the tunic. She wanted to bear his children. She wanted to kill him.

She broke away from his eyes, startled, when Ned began speaking. “It could just be a marriage in name, Elia.” He seemed a little flustered. “You may simply remain good companions. Or not even companions. The Lord of the Iron Islands is allowed to take multiple wives.” 

Brandon didn’t meet her eyes, instead choosing to stare into the breaking waves. 

She had no choice but to- “Fine,” she whispered reluctantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smeagle loves comment. Please comment.


	6. Choices to make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia imagines a future with Rodrik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea of how the Ironborn marry, so I made that part up. (Couldn't find any info in Canon. Do comment if you know something about marriage rituals.)
> 
> Also before I forget as iloveangst pointed out: "If this is 284 Asha and Theon would be a bit older . Theon was born in 279 and Asha in 275."  
> So, theon's and asha's ages have been lowered for this story.  
> Feels so good to have such observant readers!

Elia tried to prevent Theon from biting off his wooden horse’s head, relaxing in the armchair she had become well accustomed to in Rodrik’s solar. Rodrik was seated in the armchair beside her, attempting to settle a major issue in the accounts of the Iron Islands. Elia had overheard Ned pointing out to Brandon that there was an issue in the accounts that he couldn’t understand, and that some of the lords could be cheating him of money. Since Brandon had joked about being a halfwit with numbers, the cleverest person in the castle besides the Maester and Ned (both of whom had been unable to spot the problem) was presented with the accounts, at her suggestion. Rodrik was hence doing the thankless job of sifting through the hundreds of sheets to find the culprit. 

Elia couldn’t feel apologetic as Rodrik seemed eager to do a task that occupied his mind, being still haunted by ghosts of the past. Meanwhile Elia took care of Theon, who was becoming increasingly mischievous. They had spent three afternoons this way, and Elia still hadn’t caught sight of –

\- there she was, the toddler that had tried to kill her. She was wearing boy’s breeches and a devious smirk, the little devil. Hopping to her with a saccharine smile on her face, Asha Greyjoy chucked a piece of lemon cake under Elia’s nose suggestively.

“I saved it just for you, my princess.”

“Don’t eat it,” Rodrik said in a bored tone from the desk. 

“No thank you Asha, I’m not hungry.” Elia replied. “Go give it to Lord Stark the elder. He loves cake.” The toddler’s face brightened and she skipped out of the room. Earlier attempts on her included tripping her down the stairs and a package filled with poison ivy. The toddler seemed to be running out of ideas but Elia still kept her wits about her in the castle. Just in case. 

Rodrick smiled at Elia after the little devil left. “I didn’t think you would use murder to escape your marriage.”

Elia sighed. Three days, her mind chanted. Three days left for your marriage. Rodrick would return to Harlaw island in three days, leaving her to take care of Theon and Asha, at her insistence, for it was certain that the naughty siblings would take advantage of Rodrik’s leniency. With the hitherto unrestrained Asha on her hands, Elia dreaded the insurmountable feat of reining her in. Trying to stop her from killing her new parents would take up most of Elia’s sparse reserves of energy, she feared. 

“I was rather hoping my new husband would let me travel to Dorne as soon as our marriage ceremonies are over. Permanently.”

Rodrick pulled his chair to face her, and she realized with a start that he had been reading the story she’d written of Nymeria, inspired by ‘Ten Thousand Ships.’

“I found this gripping. You have a talent for the written word Elia.”

“Thank you Rodrik.” She tried to prevent Theon from rolling off her lap.

“Just put him on the ground. He likes to crawl.”

She set Theon on the ground, and he promptly rolled on the carpet. He licked it and made a face.

“Eesh. Silly boy,” she watched him with a smile as he dragged his knees along the carpet

“I will miss you much when you leave, Rodrik. You have been a good friend.”

“I will visit you oft,” Rodrik replied, bowing his thanks, “There are not many book-lovers on the Iron Isalnds.”

Elia laughed at that. “But, I’m beginning to like this place Rodrik. It has a harsh ancient beauty.”

“The Iron Islanders and Dornish are more similar than you think,” Rodrik told her. “We are both descended from the First Men, as are the Northerners. That is why the North follows the Old Gods, and not the Seven. The rest of the Southerners are mostly descended from the Andal Conquerors.”

“So, the North and the Dorne have much in common, you say? That is very curious.” She could never imagine Brandon and she had anything in common. Northerners had always been an alien species to her, their fur clothes, lack of refinement, haggard faces from the cold and weird accents. They seemed like savages. But, she realized that the Dornish were also outsiders in Westeros with their different customs and liberal attitudes. 

Rodrik smiled. “It is, though the Dornish have wholeheartedly adopted the Seven.”

Elia had never been very pious, but Arianne was. Her little niece had a habit of visiting the Sept every morning and thought of the Seven many times a day. 

“I am sorry for your lack of choice, Elia,” Rodrik said bitterly, “A sweet, knowledgeable woman like you deserved better than Brandon Stark.” It was odd to hear Rodrik to speak of his liege lord in such a biting manner, for he always chose his words carefully. 

“Maybe you could marry me instead?” Elia asked hopefully. She could. Perhaps her future would be filled with books, children and laughter. They need not lie as man and woman, but they might simply find companionship in each other. 

Rodrik’s eyes darkened and he took her playful suggestion seriously. He hesitated before answering in a low tone. “I’m afraid not princess.” Elia could understand. His grief was fresh. Brandon was his liege lord. 

Elia smiled. “I meant it as a jape, Rodrik.” His expression switched to relief, but the sadness in his eyes lingered. “You are a wonderful friend to me even in this time of loneliness.” 

Rodrik was silent. His eyes bored into hers in a strange expression and the intense blue of them filled her mind with a strange buzz. He had shaven completely, and the blonde stubble that made him look so morose was gone, revealing a well-built jaw and the lines etched on his face from age and experience. 

“What?” she whispered, afraid of herself. 

Rodrik leaned forward and hesitated for a split second, their noses brushing, before pressing his lips to hers. Vipers coiled in her belly as the kiss deepened, but he broke the kiss in moments, flushing beet red. 

Elia had heard tales of bravery about Rodrik, of how he was a warrior with a moral sense, rare among the Ironborn. He was also a lover of books. It reminded her of someone else. Someone in her past who had betrayed her. In truth, Elia could not look at Rodrik without being reminded of Rhaegar. It was strange, but true. They were both shy and stuttering in the start. They both locked themselves up in the library for hours, yet none could beat them in the yard. They were both well liked and respected. But, Elia felt the similarities ended there. 

Rodrik took her hands. “I take back my previous answer, Elia. I would marry you.”

Elia looked at their intertwined fingers. It felt wrong. Just as it had felt wrong when Rhaegar had kissed her at their marriage, his lips cold and unforgiving. Yet, Rodrik would be good to her…

She chose the most obvious answer. “I must marry Brandon on the king’s command, Rodrik. I would risk my life and yours if we marry.” Rodrik nodded and withdrew, and Elia immediately felt the loss of his hands on hers like a brand. His eyes were sad and downturned but he gave her a nod and a smile that made her relieved.

"My apologies, Elia. I hope this will not ruin our friendship."

"Of course not, Rodrik," Elia replied, her throat constricted.

She doubted it. 

OoO

Elia sat in the pile of gowns, throwing them about furiously. “I have nothing to wear for the marriage!” she announced, face-planting in the soft mountain of silk and satin.

“We could have a gown stitched for you-“ Catelyn began.

“I won’t wear a Northern gown and look like a fat beaver!” Elia yelled, raising her head up. Only a day for the marriage and her anxiety was wearing her thin. To add to her sorrow, was Catelyn seated before her in all her motherly glory, one hand always wrapped protectively around her stomach, eyes dreamy. It brought too many sorrowful memories to her mind’s surface. Her children, lost to her forever. Her womb that would never bear fruit again. 

“What about this pretty sunset dress?” Selyne asked twirling it about like a seamstress showing off her wares. 

“That’s what I wore for my last wedding, Selyne.” 

“Oops,” Selyne said. “But I knew this lady who married eight husbands all in the same wedding dress-“

“Where is Brandon? I’m going to kill him. After he brings me a silk gown. And ask the idiot where this bloody marriage will take place since this sorry excuse of a castle has no bloody Sept.”

“Brandon,” Cat hesitated, “is down with a terrible gut poisoning. We are hoping he can recover before the marriage.”

“He ate the cake?!” Elia exclaimed, “He ate Asha Greyjoy’s cake?” Catelyn shrugged. “If my future husband eats cake offered by someone who is attempting to murder us all – oh, how am I going to live with a dimwit?”

“Err-“ Rodrik leaned against the doorframe. Startled, Elia stood, wiping her hands nervously on her gown. 

“Rodrik! My apologies for this sorry state.”

“What troubles you, Elia?” Rodrik asked, his brow furrowing as he took in the mess before him.

“Lord Stark’s dimwittedness.” His lips curved in a smile. “And, I do not have a gown for the wedding.”

Rodrik’s smile disappeared. “Er, about the wedding. I had something to tell you.” He shut the door behind him and locked it. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he walked to Elia as he spoke. “Since you have been avoiding me, I couldn’t get this message across to you. But, Brandon Stark will soon ask you to leave to Winterfell to get married under a heart tree.”

“There is no Sept in Winterfell?” Elia asked, nonplussed.

“That isn’t why I’m here,” Rodrik touched her elbow. “Brandon must by no means leave the Iron Islands to marry you. He cannot. The Iron Islanders will hate him with every fibre of their beings. They admire his fearlessness in battle. But Brandon Stark needs to prove that he is as much Ironborn as them if he means to be the Lord of the Iron Islands.”

Catelyn frowned. “I don’t see how-“

“He has to take Elia as a rock wife under the Drowned Priest’s blessings,” Rodrik replied and turned to Elia, “And you must persuade him to do so.”

There was a brief silence. Elia began, “I have never successfully persuaded Brandon Stark to do as I say. In fact, I do not think anyone has. But I will try.”

Rodrik fixed her with a hard glare. “You must, Elia. Brandon is still an outsider here. His life is in danger, and if it is, so is yours. I prefer Brandon as lord, for he plans to abolish thralldom, a tradition that disgusts me. And because I- care for you. But this will make him more unpopular. He has no saltwives either, a marker of respect among the Ironborn-“

“He has no salt-wives?” Elia asked in a low tone of amusement.

“None,” Rodrik said firmly. “At least an Ironborn marriage will make him seem like less of a man from the Green Lands. And he cannot leave Pyke at this vulnerable stage. You must make him see sense,” he told her, a concerned expression on his face.

Elia kissed his cheek, deepening his blush, “You are a good man, Rodrik. I will certainly do as you say.”

Catelyn and Selyne were staring at Elia, a strange expression on their faces long after Rodrik left. 

“Selyne, heat me water for a bath. I must meet Lord Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Brandon in the future.  
> Please do leave comments! They make my day. :)


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